Smith and Wesson Hit the Road: Part Two
“Alright team,” Adler leaned in and placed both hands flat on the table. “We need this contract. We want this contract. If we don’t get this contract….” He raised his eyebrows. “Well. Cuts are inevitable in the current climate, and I’m not sure that everyone round this table is earning their place, so to speak.” He let his gaze linger on each of the executives, who gulped, shuffled, and dropped their eyes to their blackberries. “Roman’s people are giving their presentations second. That means we get the benefit of first impact, but they’re the ones who’ll be giving the last impression. So leave an impression,” he snarled. Then brightened: “Dean, you’re up. Knock em dead, tiger.”
“Yes, sir,” Dean resisted the urge to salute and hurried out of the boardroom, adjusting his tie as he crossed the corridor. The two investors from Funakoshi International nodded politely at his awkwardly spoken "Konnichiwa" and equally awkward bow. One smiled and said in a distinctly Californian accent: “Afternoon, Mr. Smith”. Cursing his fair skin’s propensity for blushing, Dean set up his slides, and ran through his part of the presentation. He was nervous. He was supposed to be good at this, dammit! Persuasion was one of his talents, and he’d secured more deals for Sandover this way than any number of emails. Maybe he should book a massage or something.
He got out of there as quickly as possible - and nearly ran headfirst into Roman’s people. There seemed to be an unnecessary number of them just for the marketing presentation - two dudes and two women, both of whom were hot, and Dean couldn’t even appreciate it. As they exchanged smirks, he found his eyes drawn to their teeth for a second, then mentally smacked himself.
Didn’t stop him lingering outside the window to watch though.
Fuck it, it was research - they’d no doubt been doing the same to him. Their presentation was slick and professional, and they grinned the whole time, but the investors seemed - unimpressed. Dean did a little internal dance of glee. Ha - four of them, and he still owned. Moreover, the dude in charge looked like he was losing his cool a bit - he was getting angry - he was - arguing with the investors. Jeez, that was never good. He was making a motion to the other dude and one woman - they were coming behind him - what were they, going to fight? No, they were -
- Throwing back their heads and revealing their cavernous monster jaws.
Oh.
Dean watched frozen in horror as the - Leviathans - rapidly consumed the investors, their shrieks silenced by the soundproof walls, and morphed into their appearance. Okay, he was gonna puke. He wasn’t authorized to deal with this situation. Could he delegate? No, he couldn’t delegate. In truth there was only one thing he could do, bar running to the men’s room to weep like a little girl.
He ran to the men’s room, checked for listeners, and called Sam.
“Angels,” said Dean a little hysterically. “Angels and monsters. This was not part of my life plan, Sammy. My life plan involved promotion inside five years and regional management sometime in the next decade.”
“Yeah, sorry about that,” Sam was actually grinning, the bastard, and Dean thought meanly that he wasn’t the one giving up the 6-figure salary to save the world. Because Dean had not only lost the deal, but he hadn’t turned up to work for the first time ever and given no explanation. Techs did it all the time, till HR pulled them. Execs…didn’t. Dean was reasonably sure he was fired now. He cast a longing glance around the sleek lines of his apartment, wondering how he could keep up the mortgage.
“Your concerns are misplaced,” said Castiel. Castiel the angel. “I believe you fail to realize the gravity of this situation. If you do not complete this mission, there will be no more Sandover. There will be no more - regional management, as you put it.”
“’Cause Leviathan will have eaten us all. Right,” Dean sighed. “Okay, what do we have to do?”
“I have ascertained the whereabouts of my brother, Balthazar. He was formerly a weapons-keeper in heaven. He will surely possess the weapon required to kill Leviathan.” He stood up.
“Woah - wait, Cas,” Dean said, the nickname coming to him as though he had said it a hundred times before. “We can’t just - go.”
Castiel frowned: “Why not?”
“Well, I don’t know about Sam here, but I’ve been awake for over twenty-four hours now.” It was true. He’d
been unable to sleep before the big presentation, then between calling Sam, and waiting for Castiel to show up when they’d left a message on his cellphone (and yes, apparently, angels of the lord carried cellphones in 2009, who knew?), Dean was seriously behind on the 8 hours recommended for optimum performance.
Sam asked Cas: “Will it make any difference if we wait until morning to start out?”
“It is morning.”
“It’s 1 am. Can you give us like 5 hours?”
Castiel pursed his lips. “Five hours,” he conceded. “I will visit the apostle. Be ready when I return.”
There was a noise like a flutter of wings, Dean blinked, and then Castiel wasn’t there anymore.
“So…I guess I owe you a major apology,” he said to Sam.
Sam made a dismissive gesture. “We’re cool. I didn’t believe it either at first.”
They stared at each other. Dean found his pulse refused to decrease to normal. Residual adrenalin, obviously.
“So - the couch folds out,” he offered, at the same time Sam started to say,
“I can sleep on the floor,” then: “Oh, cool. I can use that.”
“Maybe I should. You’re kinda ridiculously tall.”
Sam grinned, a surprisingly boyish smile that made something clench slightly in Dean’s chest. “Nah. I’ll be fine. I’m not gonna take over your bed, man.” Oh, Christ. Dean did not hear that in a dirty way. Not at all.
“Okay so I’ll see you in five hours,” Dean said hurriedly, and backed out of the room. He collapsed on his bed, and the only possible way to release adrenalin after all that was to jerk off. What, he had to get to sleep! Sometimes guys got kind of hard when they were worked up, okay? Didn’t he read that on WebMD? Okay, sleep now. Don’t think about anything. Not Sam, or Leviathan, or creepy vanishing angels.
The couch was predictably too short for Sam to stretch out on, but he wasn’t that sleepy anyway. Now that there was a plan, he wanted to get started on it. Moreover, that exchange with Dean had just woken him right up. Dean Smith was hot. And he probably wasn’t an executive anymore, and about to undertake an adventure with Sam. He was also as deep in denial as any man Sam had ever seen, so that was awkward.
Eventually he did doze off, and opened his eyes to find Castiel hovering over him in the dark. Sam jumped a mile and sat bolt upright.
“My apologies,” said the angel gravely. “I did not mean to startle you.”
“Okay,” said Sam, breathing out. “Just - um - don’t sneak up on people like that, okay? We humans generally don’t like it.”
Castiel inclined his head in acknowledgement. Sam suddenly thought to ask: “Hey - Castiel, how old are you, anyway? Is this the first time you’ve been on Earth?”
“I have been observing the world for millennia,” Castiel said, “That is my nature. But this is the first time I have taken a human form and walked upon the earth.”
“Because of the…trouble in heaven?”
“Yes. Moreover because Dean is my charge, and it is thus my duty to lead him to his calling.”
“Your - what? You’re Dean’s guardian angel?”
“Yes.”
“So - where’s mine?” Sam couldn’t help the slighted frown he knew crossed his features.
“Yours will not come.”
“Well - why not?!”
“He is, ah,...as I believe you would say...he is an asshole.”
Sam sputtered and gaped at the angel. Castiel wore the same grave expression as always. At that moment, the lights flickered on, and Dean emerged from the bedroom. Sam raised his eyebrows. Dean looked like a suburban dad ready for a weekend of camping. He wore neat khaki trousers that had clearly never been off the hanger, a waterproof coat, a backpack and hiking boots. A Swiss army knife peeked out from one his numerous pockets. He was also wearing glasses, apparently having abandoned his contacts, and Sam couldn’t help but admire the effect for a moment. Only the iron poker he was clutching in one hand ruined the image.
“Salt’s in the bag,” he said gruffly, and glared at Sam, as though daring him to say anything about his attire. “I got protein bars too, and there’s coffee in the machine.” Castiel made no comment, but allowed Sam a few minutes to freshen up in the bathroom - he really would have liked to stop by his apartment and change clothes, but he had his wallet, and didn’t want to piss the angel off any further. He figured he could always buy the essentials - if there was ever a time to exceed his credit limit, this was it.
“Which of your automobiles will we be utilizing?” Castiel asked.
“Automobile?” Dean frowned, and Sam could just see him imagining mud, blood, and other messes on his Prius’s upholstery. “Can’t your brother just sort of - zap in? Like you do?”
“Perhaps,” Castiel said dryly. “But he will not.”
“Well can’t you - zap us to him?”
“No, I cannot,” said Castiel shortly, in a tone that brooked no question.
“We can take my car,” Sam offered, and a look crossed Dean’s face: Sam glared at him, daring him to comment on his 1998 Dodge Neon. He watched Dean weighing up the options. Then,
“No,” Dean said finally. “We’ll take mine. I want to drive.”
“Cannot this contraption go any faster?” asked Castiel twenty minutes later.
“Well it could,” said Dean offendedly, “If we weren’t stuck in traffic. You want me to bulldoze those other cars?”
Castiel looked intrigued.
“Th - well - I can’t!” Dean exclaimed. “It doesn’t work like that! Where exactly are we going to, anyway?”
“Trump International Hotel and Tower,” said Castiel.
“That’s in New York!” exclaimed Sam.
“As is my brother,” said Castiel.
“Jeez, I thought we were driving across the city of something,” Sam complained. He was confined to the backseat as Cas was navigating, and his legs hurt already. “We should have flown.”
“No flying!” snapped Dean and Cas in bizarre unison.
“O-kay…” said Sam.
“Hey, you don’t like planes either?” Dean said to Cas. “Man, don’t get me started on those steel deathtraps. Did you know that the brace position is basically a conspiracy to make sure you die instantaneously on impact? To avoid a panic and all.”
“I have never had cause to utilize an aeroplane,” Castiel said, frowning. “I thought Sam was referring to actual flying, which I am - ill-equipped to perform at this precise moment.”
Pause.
“Oh,” said Sam. “Uh, sorry.”
Castiel shuffled like a huffy bird ruffling its feathers. At that moment a light changed and the traffic in front of them started to ease up, letting them on to the interstate out of Ohio.
“Well, that’s three hours,” said Dean, pulling neatly off the road into the offramp for a rest stop. “Time for a safety break.”
“I could drive for a while,” said Sam.
Dean looked mortified: “But you’re not on my insurance!”
“I want ice cream,” said Castiel. They both looked at him, having expected a protest at the delay: “I have learned from the people in the television that it is customary to ingest ice cream on stops during road trips. Also caffeinated beverages.”
“I could definitely go for a coffee,” said Dean. “Um, so you - need to eat?”
“I do not need to eat. But I do not know how long I will be here on Earth for, thus I am attempting to acclimatize.” Sam caught his eyes in the rearview mirror, and his heart twinged a little: Castiel looked sad, and like he was trying to be brave, and Sam thought for the first time about what it must be like for him, exiled from Heaven. Dean must have picked up on it too, because he said,
“Ice cream it is then,” clapping the angel on the shoulder a little too heartily, and they parked in the lot of a well-equipped rest stop. Castiel made a beeline for the cafeteria, so they followed him, Dean grabbing a couple of coffees from the machine before joining them at the ice cream counter where Castiel had his nose pressed against the glass.
“Um, can I help you?” asked the teenage server.
“What flavor do you want?” Sam nudged the angel.
Castiel looked confused. “I do not know. How can I decide which is preferable, when I have never experienced any of them before?”
“Cherry Garcia,” advised Dean, but Sam said,
“Most people start with vanilla.”
“You never had ice cream before?” asked the server incredulously.
“He means, uh, Ben and Jerry’s. He never had Ben and Jerry’s before,” said Sam hastily.
“Don’t know what you’re missing,” the teen advised.
“I wish to try all of the flavors,” said Castiel determinedly.
“Uh, well, there’s no rush,” Dean said nervously: “Ice cream isn’t going anywhere. You don’t have to try them all right now.”
“All of the flavors.” Castiel reminded Sam sharply of his neighbour’s two-year-old when she was gearing up for a serious meltdown. The server was starting to look uncomfortable, and Sam decided that a hasty
compromise was in everyone’s best interest. Castiel set his seven-scoop bowl down carefully on the table: he had chosen a mixture of classics like chocolate and vanilla, and some of the more outlandish offerings, such as ‘food of the fish’. Sam and Dean sat on one side of the booth, Castiel on the other, ploughing his way through the heaped bowl with quiet determination. The scoops disappeared with alarming speed.
“What do you think?” Sam couldn’t resist asking eventually.
Castiel considered. Then: “Ice cream is delicious. However, I find that the after effects are decidedly unpleasant.”
“After….effects?” Dean asked.
“This vessel’s stomach is making peculiar motions,” said the angel calmly.
Sam groaned, and Dean put his head in his hands.
“Paper rock scissors?” Sam suggested. He guessed Dean for a scissors man, and he was right, thus avoiding the task of escorting Castiel to the bathroom.
“I just wanted to say, it’s so good of you,” said a middle-aged woman, leaning in to touch Sam on the shoulder as Dean ushered Cas off with a death-glare: “You and your partner.”
“Huh?” said Sam intelligently, as his brain said, ‘Partner?’
“To take care of that poor soul like that….get him out for a bit. Have you and your boyfriend ever considered adopting? Not to pry, but my brother and his husband say it was the best decision of their lives.”
“We’re - um - it’s certainly on the cards for the future,” Sam gave the woman his most beatific smile, and she fluttered and beamed in return.
“Angel puke,” Dean grouched, sitting down again with a disheveled Castiel: “Guess what, it’s exactly like regular puke.”
“I do not see the point in ingesting food, if it is only to return from whence it came,” said Castiel unhappily.
“Well, that’s what happens when you try all the flavors.”
“Dean, don’t be mean to him,” Sam couldn’t help smiling a little.
“Is there a shop on site?” Dean asked. “We need to pick up some pepto bismol. And wet wipes.”
The woman beamed at Sam again over Dean’s shoulder and gave him a little wave.
They put Castiel in the back seat, where he watched the scenery, and eventually fell asleep with his head on one side in awkward-looking position.
“Angels sleep?” Dean asked.
“I guess this one does,” Sam said. “Or maybe it’s - you know - what he said, the vessel.”
“That weirds me out,” Dean said. “He’s effectively using some guy’s body.”
“Maybe the guy really wanted it,” said Sam. Their eyes caught in the rearview mirror, and Dean felt a blush
rise to his cheeks, which he attempted to quash by sheer force of will. Sam seemed to realize what he’d said, and cleared his throat. They both looked out the windscreen for a moment.
“So,” said Dean finally, searching for a topic. “Tech support, huh? How’s that working out for you?”
“I quit,” said Sam.
“What?”
“Right before I left the office yesterday. I figured if ever there was a sign…” he shrugged.
“Well, uh, you have something lined up, I guess?” Dean floundered a little.
“Nope,” Sam leaned back in the passenger seat. “Well, yeah. This.”
Dean blinked: “You’re serious.”
“I am. Looks like I was right, and this is what I was meant to do. You too, if you’d admit it.”
“Uhhh no. What I am meant to do is head the marketing department at Sandover Bridge and Iron. I am playing along with this train wreck because if I don’t, Sandover Bridge and Iron is apparently history.”
“So you like your job?”
“Sure!”
“So you’re happy?”
“Jeez, what’s with the third degree, Sammy?! Who the heck is ‘happy’?” Dean’s voice was rising to alarmingly unmasculine registers, and he made a concerted effort to draw it back into range. He took his eyes off the road to glance at Sam, who was staring intently at him with his unusual eyes. They really were interesting eyes, slightly slanted, and on first glance appearing brown; but on closer inspection contained green and even blue depending on the light. ‘Uhh, what the fuck?!?’ Dean mentally slapped himself and deducted six masculinity points. “What does that even mean anyway?”
“Just asking,” Sam said and turned back to the road. Dean found that he was breathing a little harder than normal. Being stuck in a car with a person could make you intensely aware of their physicality, in totally platonic way, their body heat and the press of their legs against the seat cushion.
“Rest stop!” Dean blurted frantically.
“It’s been less than two hours,” Sam gave him a weird look.
“Yeah well, I gotta pee. I drank all that coffee before and then I forgot to go. You shouldn’t hold it too long, you know, it can give you a bladder infection.”
Sam looked like he was trying not laugh. “If you say so, grandpa.”
“Shut up, you just wait till you hit thirty.”
“I consider it every day,” said Sam somberly, and turned to watch for an exit sign.
Trump International Hotel and Tower filled Sam with discomfort and a vague sense of Puritan condemnation. In the foyer, he returned the silently-judging stares of with equal and opposite distaste - though he did wish he’d thought to shower at the second rest stop. Dean looked like he was impressed and trying not to show it. A beautiful woman in a fitted red dress swept past and gave him a second look. He lit up like Christmas tree and grinned at her before she rolled her eyes and attached herself smoothly to the arm of a man in suit that probably cost a year of Sam’s former salary. Everything was pale gold, cream, brown and white, clean lines and high ceilings with two chandeliers just large enough to be extravagant but not garish.
“Sirs,” said a bellhop, sidling up to them and looking them up and down: “May I be of assistance?” He was addressing Dean, who even after a 10-hour drive still looked vaguely professional - Sam probably looked like a poor grad student on winter break, and Castiel like an eccentric detective. Still it was the angel who answered:
“We are here to see my brother. He is currently residing on the premises.”
“I…see. And the name?”
“He goes by many names,” Castiel pursed his lips.
“Is there a problem?” a woman with a gilded badge reading ‘manager’ descended upon them.
“Not at all,” interrupted a third voice in a suave British accent. “Cassie. Darling. Wonderful to see you.” A lean, blond, middle-aged man in a black suit jacket and grey shirt unbuttoned to the chest inserted himself between Castiel and the staff members, taking his hands and kissing him on both cheeks. Castiel looked uncomfortable.
“Oh!” the staff’s attitude made a U-turn: “Mr Roché!” exclaimed the woman. “We weren’t aware you were expecting guests.”
“Yes yes, Cassie’s always surprising us,” the blond man waved a hand dismissively . “Cherie, be a saint, have a bottle of 28 Krug sent to the suite, would you?”
“Of course Mr. Roché,” the manager enthused. “Will you and your guests be requiring anything else?”
“Not at this time.” “Mr. Roché”’s dismissed. “We’ll let you know,” he cast his eyes over Sam and Dean. He turned and headed towards the elevator. Castiel followed. Sam looked at Dean and shrugged - they had no choice but to follow too, and subsequently found themselves in the most atrociously lavish suite Sam could possibly imagine. It had its own lobby, for chrissakes, approximately the size of Sam’s apartment, with the same gold/brown/cream colour scheme as the hotel foyer. Panoramic full wall windows provided a view of the city below, and a massive ornate mirror in another wall gave the impression the room receded forever. Doors led off to either side - bed and bath, Sam could glimpse, and a low deep-oak table displayed a variety of finger foods before a cream leather couch.
“Well,” said their host, spinning on his heel to embrace Castiel, then holding him at arm’s length for a moment. “You look - well, you look like something a cat half-digested then spewed on a Persian rug. What happened?”
“I am experiencing - difficulties,” Castiel said tightly. “Since being cut off from Heaven I find my powers diminished significantly. You do not seem to be suffering from any such……diminishment.”
And Sam realized they were looking at each other, but not in the way he and Dean saw each other or saw them. They were looking into each other - the angel part, Sam presumed - zoning in on the non-physical though they held each other’s eyes just two humans would.
“Well, pish,” said the other angel. “For what it’s worth. Making fabulous wealth and spending it mostly,” he shrugged.
Castiel frowned. “Sam, Dean, this is my brother, Balthazar.”
“Charmed,” Balthazar glanced at them then refocused on Castiel. “Please, have a seat, help yourselves to whatever you’d like.”
“We were soldiers of the same garrison,” Castiel held Balthazar’s gaze. “You have…changed, brother.”
“You disapprove. Please, Cassie, say what you mean - dissembling was never your strong suit.”
Dean nudged Sam and mouthed, ‘CASSIE?’
“We require your help,” Castiel said. Balthazar’s expression changed, became more serious:
“What is it?”
“Leviathan is on Earth. I have reason to believe that these are the warriors the Scroll spoke of.” Balthazar raised an expressive eyebrow, but held his tongue. “You have the blade they require to kill it, correct?”
“Ah,” Balthazar said.
“You are the weapons keeper of heaven,” Castiel glared.
“Yeah, not so much anymore,” Balthazar ducked out of Castiel’s direct vision and flung himself onto the couch.
“Look, I do have a blade that will do it, but it’s not that simple.”
“Why not?”
“Ritual preparation,” Balthazar sighed. “You know what Heaven’s like when it comes to ritual. You have to activate the bloody thing. Catch.” Apparently out of thin air, Balthazar produced a blade, and tossed it in the general direction of Sam and Dean. Dean was already ducking, about to take some kind of appetiser from the table, so Sam forced himself not to flinch and grabbed the thing by its wooden handle with only the smallest exclamation of alarm. It was heavy, dark metal, with strange engravings up and down both sides.
“What the hell!” yelled Dean, raising his hands to check if the sword had taken any hairs off the back of his head.
“What do you mean activate?” Sam wanted to know.
“According to the Scrolls, Leviathan can be slain with a bone washed in the blood of the Three Fallen,” Balthazar picked a long-stemmed glass from the table and twirled it between his fingers. “That would be angels, humans and monsters, for the uninformed amongst us.”
A knock at the door interrupted them, and Balthazar waved them into seats whilst he collected the bottle from room service. He poured himself and each of his guests a glass of champagne, tipping the bellboy with a hundred dollar bill. Castiel downed his glass like it was water; Balthazar savoured his; Sam and Dean took their first sips and exchanged surreptitious looks of distaste.
“So, angels and humans we have,” Sam made a circular gesture to encompass the people in the room.
“Only angels,” said Castiel. “Fallen humans are demons.”
“Excuse me, demons?” Dean had abandoned his champagne for a handful of bruschetta. Apparently when confronted with Leviathan, carbs were back on the menu. “Demons are real?”
“Yes.”
“As in, little red dudes with pitchforks and horns on their heads?”
Castiel narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips in Dean’s direction. Sam was beginning to read that look as, ‘I don’t know what you are talking about, but I sense it is something extremely stupid’.
“They wear humans,” Balthazar said. “Just like us. The only way to tell a possessed human by sight is if their eyes turn black.”
“Yeah about that,” Sam had to ask: “How do the humans you’re currently - wearing - how do they feel about you walking around in their bodies?”
“They consented,” said Castiel shortly. “This vessel belongs to a man of faith. It is his honor to serve.” Sam could see Dean gearing up to make a comment, probably about puking ice-cream, and he nudged him to keep quiet.
“And this handsome bastard had very little to live for,” Balthazar shrugged. “I know, I know, you’d never guess.”
“Okay,” Dean said. “Let me get this straight - we have to wash - that-,” he gestured the blade, “in the blood of a monster, a demon, and…”
“Me,” Castiel supplied.
“…then find Dick Roman, get past the multiple layers of security he has at any time, and,” he swallowed, “stab him.”
“In essence,” said Castiel.
“Awesome,” said Dean. “I am so very, very fired.”
“Maybe not,” said Castiel. “An angel at full or even half strength could erase your senior officer’s memory of your absences.” He looked at Balthazar. “Brother?”
“Meh,” said Balthazar.
“What? What does that mean?” Dean demanded.
“It means I don’t like you,” Balthazar grinned. “We’ve only just met, and so far you’ve been nothing but uncouth. You speak rudely, poured most of glass of '28 Krug into that plant pot, and you haven’t even glanced at that Monet original placed so conveniently opposite. I’m not inclined to enable your philistine occupation. Though….” His gave travelled to Castiel, and softened. “My little brother here is fond of you. Inexplicably. As a favor to him, I might consider it. If you impress me.”
“That’s - well that’s great,” Dean sneered. “Complete three tasks to impress fairy king, and I get my life back?”
“Four tasks,” Castiel corrected. “If you include Dick.”
Sam snorted and covered it with a wineglass. “Are the bloods supposed to be mixed together, or one at a time?” he asked.
“Mixed together,” said Balthazar. “Now chop chop, times a-wasting,” He clapped his hands. “Castiel? First blood?” Castiel started to roll up the sleeve of his trenchcoat.
“Is it worth me asking why you don’t bleed on it?” Dean asked Balthazar.
“He’s more Fallen than I am,” Balthazar said breezily. “Besides, this shirt is Gaultier.”
Dean glared at Balthazar whilst Sam watched from the corner of his eye as Castiel took a sharp knife from the table and started to draw it up his arm. Blood ran swiftly into a bowl from the table.
“Hey - woah - that’s enough Cas, you’re going to cut a vein!”
“Yes. The purpose of this exercise is to obtain blood.”
“Yeah but - leave some for your vessel to use!”
Sam mentally facepalmed as Castiel cocked his head at him, frowning, then proceeded to turn ever paler and his knees buckled. Balthazar sighed and caught him before he could faceplant, taking the knife from him and touching two fingers to Castiel’s forearm. Sam blinked - when he looked again, the bleeding had stopped, and the cut had closed, looking days old instead of seconds.
“That’s….a neat trick,” said Sam slowly.
“Sloppy,” Balthazar looked regretfully at his work. “Not long ago, I could have healed that completely with a thought.” Then he shook himself. “Well, one down, two to go! I’ll keep the blood here while you obtain the others - don’t want to end up spilling it. Right then,” he sipped his champagne and waved a hand at Sam and Dean, “Off you go.”
They both looked at Castiel, who still appeared vaguely dazed.
“I’ll keep him,” Balthazar said testily. “You know what you have to do now, and you obviously aren’t doing a very good job of looking after him.”
“No,” said Castiel. “They need my guidance. And you, brother, who know what I am, should not infantilize me.”
He glared at Balthazar, and for a second, something bright and sharp and intimidating flashed behind his eyes.
Sam and Dean exchanged glances. “Busted angel is better than no angel,” said Dean.
“It will take me but a few moments to restore myself,” Castiel said. “In the meantime, you should contact the apostle.”
“The what?” Dean demanded. Sam quickly filled him in on the Becky Rosen situation.
“Contact her,” Castiel commanded, “And inform her of what has come to pass.”
“I - don’t have her number,” Sam lied.
“You will utilize the window through space in the computer,” Castiel said. “The apostle showed it to me.”
Sam blanked for a moment, then realized: “You mean Skype?”
“You may reach her at this address.” Castiel fished in one of his coat pockets and produced a folded sheet of purple notebook paper. Sam opened it to reveal the email ‘wincestlvr42@gmail.com’ inside a series of hearts.
“There’s a laptop in the bedroom,” Balthazar offered.
“I’ll come,” Dean said, probably in order to get away from Balthazar, failing to heed the warning that Sam was sending him with his eyes.
“What’s a wincest?” Dean asked as Sam booted the computer up. Sam briefly considered explaining Becky’s love for an obscure book series, and her insistence that its sibling protagonists were locked torrid sexual co-dependence, but dismissed it for another time. “No idea,” he said, logging into Skype.
wincestlvr42 is online. Naturally.
“SAM!” Becky bounced. “Are you alright?”
“We’re fine, thanks, Becky…”
“Oooh, is that Dean? Move out of the way, let me see him.” Sam practically ducked and left Dean to receive the full force of Becky’s excited perusal. “Nice,” she decreed. “So are you two-“
“We’re at the Trump International in New York,” Sam cut her off before she could say anything embarrassing.
They filled Becky in on events since they’d seen her, and what was necessary to kill Leviathan.
“Wow, okay,” she blinked, typing frantically in another window . “That’s - gosh. It’s just sinking in that like, demons are real, you know? I mean, I always suspected….” She shook her head. Then her mouth set, as
serious as Sam had ever seen her. “You guys have to be careful,” she said.
“Thanks Becky, we will.”
“Seriously. I’m no good at sad endings. One time, I decided to write this deathfic, where the boys saved the world but they both died and God, it was brutal, and the reviews were mostly like WTF, how could you do that to-….”
Dean mouthed ‘what the hell’ at Sam from out her line of sight.
“Anyway, that’s pretty much it for the moment,” Sam said loudly.
“Okay,” Becky blew out her breath, and a strand of blonde hair jumped out of her face. “Got it. You guys…” her chin quivered momentarily and her eyes widened to near-anime proportions. “Call me, okay? And tell me if there’s anything I can do.”
“We will, Becky.”
They logged out, and clicked onto a local news site in search of leads on a monster.
Part Three
“Yes, sir,” Dean resisted the urge to salute and hurried out of the boardroom, adjusting his tie as he crossed the corridor. The two investors from Funakoshi International nodded politely at his awkwardly spoken "Konnichiwa" and equally awkward bow. One smiled and said in a distinctly Californian accent: “Afternoon, Mr. Smith”. Cursing his fair skin’s propensity for blushing, Dean set up his slides, and ran through his part of the presentation. He was nervous. He was supposed to be good at this, dammit! Persuasion was one of his talents, and he’d secured more deals for Sandover this way than any number of emails. Maybe he should book a massage or something.
He got out of there as quickly as possible - and nearly ran headfirst into Roman’s people. There seemed to be an unnecessary number of them just for the marketing presentation - two dudes and two women, both of whom were hot, and Dean couldn’t even appreciate it. As they exchanged smirks, he found his eyes drawn to their teeth for a second, then mentally smacked himself.
Didn’t stop him lingering outside the window to watch though.
Fuck it, it was research - they’d no doubt been doing the same to him. Their presentation was slick and professional, and they grinned the whole time, but the investors seemed - unimpressed. Dean did a little internal dance of glee. Ha - four of them, and he still owned. Moreover, the dude in charge looked like he was losing his cool a bit - he was getting angry - he was - arguing with the investors. Jeez, that was never good. He was making a motion to the other dude and one woman - they were coming behind him - what were they, going to fight? No, they were -
- Throwing back their heads and revealing their cavernous monster jaws.
Oh.
Dean watched frozen in horror as the - Leviathans - rapidly consumed the investors, their shrieks silenced by the soundproof walls, and morphed into their appearance. Okay, he was gonna puke. He wasn’t authorized to deal with this situation. Could he delegate? No, he couldn’t delegate. In truth there was only one thing he could do, bar running to the men’s room to weep like a little girl.
He ran to the men’s room, checked for listeners, and called Sam.
“Angels,” said Dean a little hysterically. “Angels and monsters. This was not part of my life plan, Sammy. My life plan involved promotion inside five years and regional management sometime in the next decade.”
“Yeah, sorry about that,” Sam was actually grinning, the bastard, and Dean thought meanly that he wasn’t the one giving up the 6-figure salary to save the world. Because Dean had not only lost the deal, but he hadn’t turned up to work for the first time ever and given no explanation. Techs did it all the time, till HR pulled them. Execs…didn’t. Dean was reasonably sure he was fired now. He cast a longing glance around the sleek lines of his apartment, wondering how he could keep up the mortgage.
“Your concerns are misplaced,” said Castiel. Castiel the angel. “I believe you fail to realize the gravity of this situation. If you do not complete this mission, there will be no more Sandover. There will be no more - regional management, as you put it.”
“’Cause Leviathan will have eaten us all. Right,” Dean sighed. “Okay, what do we have to do?”
“I have ascertained the whereabouts of my brother, Balthazar. He was formerly a weapons-keeper in heaven. He will surely possess the weapon required to kill Leviathan.” He stood up.
“Woah - wait, Cas,” Dean said, the nickname coming to him as though he had said it a hundred times before. “We can’t just - go.”
Castiel frowned: “Why not?”
“Well, I don’t know about Sam here, but I’ve been awake for over twenty-four hours now.” It was true. He’d
been unable to sleep before the big presentation, then between calling Sam, and waiting for Castiel to show up when they’d left a message on his cellphone (and yes, apparently, angels of the lord carried cellphones in 2009, who knew?), Dean was seriously behind on the 8 hours recommended for optimum performance.
Sam asked Cas: “Will it make any difference if we wait until morning to start out?”
“It is morning.”
“It’s 1 am. Can you give us like 5 hours?”
Castiel pursed his lips. “Five hours,” he conceded. “I will visit the apostle. Be ready when I return.”
There was a noise like a flutter of wings, Dean blinked, and then Castiel wasn’t there anymore.
“So…I guess I owe you a major apology,” he said to Sam.
Sam made a dismissive gesture. “We’re cool. I didn’t believe it either at first.”
They stared at each other. Dean found his pulse refused to decrease to normal. Residual adrenalin, obviously.
“So - the couch folds out,” he offered, at the same time Sam started to say,
“I can sleep on the floor,” then: “Oh, cool. I can use that.”
“Maybe I should. You’re kinda ridiculously tall.”
Sam grinned, a surprisingly boyish smile that made something clench slightly in Dean’s chest. “Nah. I’ll be fine. I’m not gonna take over your bed, man.” Oh, Christ. Dean did not hear that in a dirty way. Not at all.
“Okay so I’ll see you in five hours,” Dean said hurriedly, and backed out of the room. He collapsed on his bed, and the only possible way to release adrenalin after all that was to jerk off. What, he had to get to sleep! Sometimes guys got kind of hard when they were worked up, okay? Didn’t he read that on WebMD? Okay, sleep now. Don’t think about anything. Not Sam, or Leviathan, or creepy vanishing angels.
The couch was predictably too short for Sam to stretch out on, but he wasn’t that sleepy anyway. Now that there was a plan, he wanted to get started on it. Moreover, that exchange with Dean had just woken him right up. Dean Smith was hot. And he probably wasn’t an executive anymore, and about to undertake an adventure with Sam. He was also as deep in denial as any man Sam had ever seen, so that was awkward.
Eventually he did doze off, and opened his eyes to find Castiel hovering over him in the dark. Sam jumped a mile and sat bolt upright.
“My apologies,” said the angel gravely. “I did not mean to startle you.”
“Okay,” said Sam, breathing out. “Just - um - don’t sneak up on people like that, okay? We humans generally don’t like it.”
Castiel inclined his head in acknowledgement. Sam suddenly thought to ask: “Hey - Castiel, how old are you, anyway? Is this the first time you’ve been on Earth?”
“I have been observing the world for millennia,” Castiel said, “That is my nature. But this is the first time I have taken a human form and walked upon the earth.”
“Because of the…trouble in heaven?”
“Yes. Moreover because Dean is my charge, and it is thus my duty to lead him to his calling.”
“Your - what? You’re Dean’s guardian angel?”
“Yes.”
“So - where’s mine?” Sam couldn’t help the slighted frown he knew crossed his features.
“Yours will not come.”
“Well - why not?!”
“He is, ah,...as I believe you would say...he is an asshole.”
Sam sputtered and gaped at the angel. Castiel wore the same grave expression as always. At that moment, the lights flickered on, and Dean emerged from the bedroom. Sam raised his eyebrows. Dean looked like a suburban dad ready for a weekend of camping. He wore neat khaki trousers that had clearly never been off the hanger, a waterproof coat, a backpack and hiking boots. A Swiss army knife peeked out from one his numerous pockets. He was also wearing glasses, apparently having abandoned his contacts, and Sam couldn’t help but admire the effect for a moment. Only the iron poker he was clutching in one hand ruined the image.
“Salt’s in the bag,” he said gruffly, and glared at Sam, as though daring him to say anything about his attire. “I got protein bars too, and there’s coffee in the machine.” Castiel made no comment, but allowed Sam a few minutes to freshen up in the bathroom - he really would have liked to stop by his apartment and change clothes, but he had his wallet, and didn’t want to piss the angel off any further. He figured he could always buy the essentials - if there was ever a time to exceed his credit limit, this was it.
“Which of your automobiles will we be utilizing?” Castiel asked.
“Automobile?” Dean frowned, and Sam could just see him imagining mud, blood, and other messes on his Prius’s upholstery. “Can’t your brother just sort of - zap in? Like you do?”
“Perhaps,” Castiel said dryly. “But he will not.”
“Well can’t you - zap us to him?”
“No, I cannot,” said Castiel shortly, in a tone that brooked no question.
“We can take my car,” Sam offered, and a look crossed Dean’s face: Sam glared at him, daring him to comment on his 1998 Dodge Neon. He watched Dean weighing up the options. Then,
“No,” Dean said finally. “We’ll take mine. I want to drive.”
“Cannot this contraption go any faster?” asked Castiel twenty minutes later.
“Well it could,” said Dean offendedly, “If we weren’t stuck in traffic. You want me to bulldoze those other cars?”
Castiel looked intrigued.
“Th - well - I can’t!” Dean exclaimed. “It doesn’t work like that! Where exactly are we going to, anyway?”
“Trump International Hotel and Tower,” said Castiel.
“That’s in New York!” exclaimed Sam.
“As is my brother,” said Castiel.
“Jeez, I thought we were driving across the city of something,” Sam complained. He was confined to the backseat as Cas was navigating, and his legs hurt already. “We should have flown.”
“No flying!” snapped Dean and Cas in bizarre unison.
“O-kay…” said Sam.
“Hey, you don’t like planes either?” Dean said to Cas. “Man, don’t get me started on those steel deathtraps. Did you know that the brace position is basically a conspiracy to make sure you die instantaneously on impact? To avoid a panic and all.”
“I have never had cause to utilize an aeroplane,” Castiel said, frowning. “I thought Sam was referring to actual flying, which I am - ill-equipped to perform at this precise moment.”
Pause.
“Oh,” said Sam. “Uh, sorry.”
Castiel shuffled like a huffy bird ruffling its feathers. At that moment a light changed and the traffic in front of them started to ease up, letting them on to the interstate out of Ohio.
“Well, that’s three hours,” said Dean, pulling neatly off the road into the offramp for a rest stop. “Time for a safety break.”
“I could drive for a while,” said Sam.
Dean looked mortified: “But you’re not on my insurance!”
“I want ice cream,” said Castiel. They both looked at him, having expected a protest at the delay: “I have learned from the people in the television that it is customary to ingest ice cream on stops during road trips. Also caffeinated beverages.”
“I could definitely go for a coffee,” said Dean. “Um, so you - need to eat?”
“I do not need to eat. But I do not know how long I will be here on Earth for, thus I am attempting to acclimatize.” Sam caught his eyes in the rearview mirror, and his heart twinged a little: Castiel looked sad, and like he was trying to be brave, and Sam thought for the first time about what it must be like for him, exiled from Heaven. Dean must have picked up on it too, because he said,
“Ice cream it is then,” clapping the angel on the shoulder a little too heartily, and they parked in the lot of a well-equipped rest stop. Castiel made a beeline for the cafeteria, so they followed him, Dean grabbing a couple of coffees from the machine before joining them at the ice cream counter where Castiel had his nose pressed against the glass.
“Um, can I help you?” asked the teenage server.
“What flavor do you want?” Sam nudged the angel.
Castiel looked confused. “I do not know. How can I decide which is preferable, when I have never experienced any of them before?”
“Cherry Garcia,” advised Dean, but Sam said,
“Most people start with vanilla.”
“You never had ice cream before?” asked the server incredulously.
“He means, uh, Ben and Jerry’s. He never had Ben and Jerry’s before,” said Sam hastily.
“Don’t know what you’re missing,” the teen advised.
“I wish to try all of the flavors,” said Castiel determinedly.
“Uh, well, there’s no rush,” Dean said nervously: “Ice cream isn’t going anywhere. You don’t have to try them all right now.”
“All of the flavors.” Castiel reminded Sam sharply of his neighbour’s two-year-old when she was gearing up for a serious meltdown. The server was starting to look uncomfortable, and Sam decided that a hasty
compromise was in everyone’s best interest. Castiel set his seven-scoop bowl down carefully on the table: he had chosen a mixture of classics like chocolate and vanilla, and some of the more outlandish offerings, such as ‘food of the fish’. Sam and Dean sat on one side of the booth, Castiel on the other, ploughing his way through the heaped bowl with quiet determination. The scoops disappeared with alarming speed.
“What do you think?” Sam couldn’t resist asking eventually.
Castiel considered. Then: “Ice cream is delicious. However, I find that the after effects are decidedly unpleasant.”
“After….effects?” Dean asked.
“This vessel’s stomach is making peculiar motions,” said the angel calmly.
Sam groaned, and Dean put his head in his hands.
“Paper rock scissors?” Sam suggested. He guessed Dean for a scissors man, and he was right, thus avoiding the task of escorting Castiel to the bathroom.
“I just wanted to say, it’s so good of you,” said a middle-aged woman, leaning in to touch Sam on the shoulder as Dean ushered Cas off with a death-glare: “You and your partner.”
“Huh?” said Sam intelligently, as his brain said, ‘Partner?’
“To take care of that poor soul like that….get him out for a bit. Have you and your boyfriend ever considered adopting? Not to pry, but my brother and his husband say it was the best decision of their lives.”
“We’re - um - it’s certainly on the cards for the future,” Sam gave the woman his most beatific smile, and she fluttered and beamed in return.
“Angel puke,” Dean grouched, sitting down again with a disheveled Castiel: “Guess what, it’s exactly like regular puke.”
“I do not see the point in ingesting food, if it is only to return from whence it came,” said Castiel unhappily.
“Well, that’s what happens when you try all the flavors.”
“Dean, don’t be mean to him,” Sam couldn’t help smiling a little.
“Is there a shop on site?” Dean asked. “We need to pick up some pepto bismol. And wet wipes.”
The woman beamed at Sam again over Dean’s shoulder and gave him a little wave.
They put Castiel in the back seat, where he watched the scenery, and eventually fell asleep with his head on one side in awkward-looking position.
“Angels sleep?” Dean asked.
“I guess this one does,” Sam said. “Or maybe it’s - you know - what he said, the vessel.”
“That weirds me out,” Dean said. “He’s effectively using some guy’s body.”
“Maybe the guy really wanted it,” said Sam. Their eyes caught in the rearview mirror, and Dean felt a blush
rise to his cheeks, which he attempted to quash by sheer force of will. Sam seemed to realize what he’d said, and cleared his throat. They both looked out the windscreen for a moment.
“So,” said Dean finally, searching for a topic. “Tech support, huh? How’s that working out for you?”
“I quit,” said Sam.
“What?”
“Right before I left the office yesterday. I figured if ever there was a sign…” he shrugged.
“Well, uh, you have something lined up, I guess?” Dean floundered a little.
“Nope,” Sam leaned back in the passenger seat. “Well, yeah. This.”
Dean blinked: “You’re serious.”
“I am. Looks like I was right, and this is what I was meant to do. You too, if you’d admit it.”
“Uhhh no. What I am meant to do is head the marketing department at Sandover Bridge and Iron. I am playing along with this train wreck because if I don’t, Sandover Bridge and Iron is apparently history.”
“So you like your job?”
“Sure!”
“So you’re happy?”
“Jeez, what’s with the third degree, Sammy?! Who the heck is ‘happy’?” Dean’s voice was rising to alarmingly unmasculine registers, and he made a concerted effort to draw it back into range. He took his eyes off the road to glance at Sam, who was staring intently at him with his unusual eyes. They really were interesting eyes, slightly slanted, and on first glance appearing brown; but on closer inspection contained green and even blue depending on the light. ‘Uhh, what the fuck?!?’ Dean mentally slapped himself and deducted six masculinity points. “What does that even mean anyway?”
“Just asking,” Sam said and turned back to the road. Dean found that he was breathing a little harder than normal. Being stuck in a car with a person could make you intensely aware of their physicality, in totally platonic way, their body heat and the press of their legs against the seat cushion.
“Rest stop!” Dean blurted frantically.
“It’s been less than two hours,” Sam gave him a weird look.
“Yeah well, I gotta pee. I drank all that coffee before and then I forgot to go. You shouldn’t hold it too long, you know, it can give you a bladder infection.”
Sam looked like he was trying not laugh. “If you say so, grandpa.”
“Shut up, you just wait till you hit thirty.”
“I consider it every day,” said Sam somberly, and turned to watch for an exit sign.
Trump International Hotel and Tower filled Sam with discomfort and a vague sense of Puritan condemnation. In the foyer, he returned the silently-judging stares of with equal and opposite distaste - though he did wish he’d thought to shower at the second rest stop. Dean looked like he was impressed and trying not to show it. A beautiful woman in a fitted red dress swept past and gave him a second look. He lit up like Christmas tree and grinned at her before she rolled her eyes and attached herself smoothly to the arm of a man in suit that probably cost a year of Sam’s former salary. Everything was pale gold, cream, brown and white, clean lines and high ceilings with two chandeliers just large enough to be extravagant but not garish.
“Sirs,” said a bellhop, sidling up to them and looking them up and down: “May I be of assistance?” He was addressing Dean, who even after a 10-hour drive still looked vaguely professional - Sam probably looked like a poor grad student on winter break, and Castiel like an eccentric detective. Still it was the angel who answered:
“We are here to see my brother. He is currently residing on the premises.”
“I…see. And the name?”
“He goes by many names,” Castiel pursed his lips.
“Is there a problem?” a woman with a gilded badge reading ‘manager’ descended upon them.
“Not at all,” interrupted a third voice in a suave British accent. “Cassie. Darling. Wonderful to see you.” A lean, blond, middle-aged man in a black suit jacket and grey shirt unbuttoned to the chest inserted himself between Castiel and the staff members, taking his hands and kissing him on both cheeks. Castiel looked uncomfortable.
“Oh!” the staff’s attitude made a U-turn: “Mr Roché!” exclaimed the woman. “We weren’t aware you were expecting guests.”
“Yes yes, Cassie’s always surprising us,” the blond man waved a hand dismissively . “Cherie, be a saint, have a bottle of 28 Krug sent to the suite, would you?”
“Of course Mr. Roché,” the manager enthused. “Will you and your guests be requiring anything else?”
“Not at this time.” “Mr. Roché”’s dismissed. “We’ll let you know,” he cast his eyes over Sam and Dean. He turned and headed towards the elevator. Castiel followed. Sam looked at Dean and shrugged - they had no choice but to follow too, and subsequently found themselves in the most atrociously lavish suite Sam could possibly imagine. It had its own lobby, for chrissakes, approximately the size of Sam’s apartment, with the same gold/brown/cream colour scheme as the hotel foyer. Panoramic full wall windows provided a view of the city below, and a massive ornate mirror in another wall gave the impression the room receded forever. Doors led off to either side - bed and bath, Sam could glimpse, and a low deep-oak table displayed a variety of finger foods before a cream leather couch.
“Well,” said their host, spinning on his heel to embrace Castiel, then holding him at arm’s length for a moment. “You look - well, you look like something a cat half-digested then spewed on a Persian rug. What happened?”
“I am experiencing - difficulties,” Castiel said tightly. “Since being cut off from Heaven I find my powers diminished significantly. You do not seem to be suffering from any such……diminishment.”
And Sam realized they were looking at each other, but not in the way he and Dean saw each other or saw them. They were looking into each other - the angel part, Sam presumed - zoning in on the non-physical though they held each other’s eyes just two humans would.
“Well, pish,” said the other angel. “For what it’s worth. Making fabulous wealth and spending it mostly,” he shrugged.
Castiel frowned. “Sam, Dean, this is my brother, Balthazar.”
“Charmed,” Balthazar glanced at them then refocused on Castiel. “Please, have a seat, help yourselves to whatever you’d like.”
“We were soldiers of the same garrison,” Castiel held Balthazar’s gaze. “You have…changed, brother.”
“You disapprove. Please, Cassie, say what you mean - dissembling was never your strong suit.”
Dean nudged Sam and mouthed, ‘CASSIE?’
“We require your help,” Castiel said. Balthazar’s expression changed, became more serious:
“What is it?”
“Leviathan is on Earth. I have reason to believe that these are the warriors the Scroll spoke of.” Balthazar raised an expressive eyebrow, but held his tongue. “You have the blade they require to kill it, correct?”
“Ah,” Balthazar said.
“You are the weapons keeper of heaven,” Castiel glared.
“Yeah, not so much anymore,” Balthazar ducked out of Castiel’s direct vision and flung himself onto the couch.
“Look, I do have a blade that will do it, but it’s not that simple.”
“Why not?”
“Ritual preparation,” Balthazar sighed. “You know what Heaven’s like when it comes to ritual. You have to activate the bloody thing. Catch.” Apparently out of thin air, Balthazar produced a blade, and tossed it in the general direction of Sam and Dean. Dean was already ducking, about to take some kind of appetiser from the table, so Sam forced himself not to flinch and grabbed the thing by its wooden handle with only the smallest exclamation of alarm. It was heavy, dark metal, with strange engravings up and down both sides.
“What the hell!” yelled Dean, raising his hands to check if the sword had taken any hairs off the back of his head.
“What do you mean activate?” Sam wanted to know.
“According to the Scrolls, Leviathan can be slain with a bone washed in the blood of the Three Fallen,” Balthazar picked a long-stemmed glass from the table and twirled it between his fingers. “That would be angels, humans and monsters, for the uninformed amongst us.”
A knock at the door interrupted them, and Balthazar waved them into seats whilst he collected the bottle from room service. He poured himself and each of his guests a glass of champagne, tipping the bellboy with a hundred dollar bill. Castiel downed his glass like it was water; Balthazar savoured his; Sam and Dean took their first sips and exchanged surreptitious looks of distaste.
“So, angels and humans we have,” Sam made a circular gesture to encompass the people in the room.
“Only angels,” said Castiel. “Fallen humans are demons.”
“Excuse me, demons?” Dean had abandoned his champagne for a handful of bruschetta. Apparently when confronted with Leviathan, carbs were back on the menu. “Demons are real?”
“Yes.”
“As in, little red dudes with pitchforks and horns on their heads?”
Castiel narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips in Dean’s direction. Sam was beginning to read that look as, ‘I don’t know what you are talking about, but I sense it is something extremely stupid’.
“They wear humans,” Balthazar said. “Just like us. The only way to tell a possessed human by sight is if their eyes turn black.”
“Yeah about that,” Sam had to ask: “How do the humans you’re currently - wearing - how do they feel about you walking around in their bodies?”
“They consented,” said Castiel shortly. “This vessel belongs to a man of faith. It is his honor to serve.” Sam could see Dean gearing up to make a comment, probably about puking ice-cream, and he nudged him to keep quiet.
“And this handsome bastard had very little to live for,” Balthazar shrugged. “I know, I know, you’d never guess.”
“Okay,” Dean said. “Let me get this straight - we have to wash - that-,” he gestured the blade, “in the blood of a monster, a demon, and…”
“Me,” Castiel supplied.
“…then find Dick Roman, get past the multiple layers of security he has at any time, and,” he swallowed, “stab him.”
“In essence,” said Castiel.
“Awesome,” said Dean. “I am so very, very fired.”
“Maybe not,” said Castiel. “An angel at full or even half strength could erase your senior officer’s memory of your absences.” He looked at Balthazar. “Brother?”
“Meh,” said Balthazar.
“What? What does that mean?” Dean demanded.
“It means I don’t like you,” Balthazar grinned. “We’ve only just met, and so far you’ve been nothing but uncouth. You speak rudely, poured most of glass of '28 Krug into that plant pot, and you haven’t even glanced at that Monet original placed so conveniently opposite. I’m not inclined to enable your philistine occupation. Though….” His gave travelled to Castiel, and softened. “My little brother here is fond of you. Inexplicably. As a favor to him, I might consider it. If you impress me.”
“That’s - well that’s great,” Dean sneered. “Complete three tasks to impress fairy king, and I get my life back?”
“Four tasks,” Castiel corrected. “If you include Dick.”
Sam snorted and covered it with a wineglass. “Are the bloods supposed to be mixed together, or one at a time?” he asked.
“Mixed together,” said Balthazar. “Now chop chop, times a-wasting,” He clapped his hands. “Castiel? First blood?” Castiel started to roll up the sleeve of his trenchcoat.
“Is it worth me asking why you don’t bleed on it?” Dean asked Balthazar.
“He’s more Fallen than I am,” Balthazar said breezily. “Besides, this shirt is Gaultier.”
Dean glared at Balthazar whilst Sam watched from the corner of his eye as Castiel took a sharp knife from the table and started to draw it up his arm. Blood ran swiftly into a bowl from the table.
“Hey - woah - that’s enough Cas, you’re going to cut a vein!”
“Yes. The purpose of this exercise is to obtain blood.”
“Yeah but - leave some for your vessel to use!”
Sam mentally facepalmed as Castiel cocked his head at him, frowning, then proceeded to turn ever paler and his knees buckled. Balthazar sighed and caught him before he could faceplant, taking the knife from him and touching two fingers to Castiel’s forearm. Sam blinked - when he looked again, the bleeding had stopped, and the cut had closed, looking days old instead of seconds.
“That’s….a neat trick,” said Sam slowly.
“Sloppy,” Balthazar looked regretfully at his work. “Not long ago, I could have healed that completely with a thought.” Then he shook himself. “Well, one down, two to go! I’ll keep the blood here while you obtain the others - don’t want to end up spilling it. Right then,” he sipped his champagne and waved a hand at Sam and Dean, “Off you go.”
They both looked at Castiel, who still appeared vaguely dazed.
“I’ll keep him,” Balthazar said testily. “You know what you have to do now, and you obviously aren’t doing a very good job of looking after him.”
“No,” said Castiel. “They need my guidance. And you, brother, who know what I am, should not infantilize me.”
He glared at Balthazar, and for a second, something bright and sharp and intimidating flashed behind his eyes.
Sam and Dean exchanged glances. “Busted angel is better than no angel,” said Dean.
“It will take me but a few moments to restore myself,” Castiel said. “In the meantime, you should contact the apostle.”
“The what?” Dean demanded. Sam quickly filled him in on the Becky Rosen situation.
“Contact her,” Castiel commanded, “And inform her of what has come to pass.”
“I - don’t have her number,” Sam lied.
“You will utilize the window through space in the computer,” Castiel said. “The apostle showed it to me.”
Sam blanked for a moment, then realized: “You mean Skype?”
“You may reach her at this address.” Castiel fished in one of his coat pockets and produced a folded sheet of purple notebook paper. Sam opened it to reveal the email ‘wincestlvr42@gmail.com’ inside a series of hearts.
“There’s a laptop in the bedroom,” Balthazar offered.
“I’ll come,” Dean said, probably in order to get away from Balthazar, failing to heed the warning that Sam was sending him with his eyes.
“What’s a wincest?” Dean asked as Sam booted the computer up. Sam briefly considered explaining Becky’s love for an obscure book series, and her insistence that its sibling protagonists were locked torrid sexual co-dependence, but dismissed it for another time. “No idea,” he said, logging into Skype.
wincestlvr42 is online. Naturally.
“SAM!” Becky bounced. “Are you alright?”
“We’re fine, thanks, Becky…”
“Oooh, is that Dean? Move out of the way, let me see him.” Sam practically ducked and left Dean to receive the full force of Becky’s excited perusal. “Nice,” she decreed. “So are you two-“
“We’re at the Trump International in New York,” Sam cut her off before she could say anything embarrassing.
They filled Becky in on events since they’d seen her, and what was necessary to kill Leviathan.
“Wow, okay,” she blinked, typing frantically in another window . “That’s - gosh. It’s just sinking in that like, demons are real, you know? I mean, I always suspected….” She shook her head. Then her mouth set, as
serious as Sam had ever seen her. “You guys have to be careful,” she said.
“Thanks Becky, we will.”
“Seriously. I’m no good at sad endings. One time, I decided to write this deathfic, where the boys saved the world but they both died and God, it was brutal, and the reviews were mostly like WTF, how could you do that to-….”
Dean mouthed ‘what the hell’ at Sam from out her line of sight.
“Anyway, that’s pretty much it for the moment,” Sam said loudly.
“Okay,” Becky blew out her breath, and a strand of blonde hair jumped out of her face. “Got it. You guys…” her chin quivered momentarily and her eyes widened to near-anime proportions. “Call me, okay? And tell me if there’s anything I can do.”
“We will, Becky.”
They logged out, and clicked onto a local news site in search of leads on a monster.
Part Three